


Detour

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silva and Villa are separated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detour

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on four hours of sleep at midnight. Forgive (and possible forget if this is as bad as I think it is) but whatever might as well post for rose because she was sick and because she deserves some silva   
> (i'm sorry this is so short and there's not actually much there, but w/e i'm feeling the ship out)

Villa had a theory that once something was lost, it was lost forever. He didn’t believe in losing people; He believed in the severing of the bond between them and the subsequent loss of a once passionate connection. The connection was his lost something, and he’d lost it forever. 

 

Every day, he thought about the loss, thought about how it felt like little bits of his character were stripped away each time he was forced to be alone. If he was alone, he was forced to confront what he had left behind, what Silva had left behind, what the two of them were _forced_ to leave behind. Because football was above everything, and that was the unspoken rule. 

 

+

 

They were both called up for the national team in the middle of winter. It was freezing, and Silva always liked to rub his ears when he was cold. His cheeks turned pink, and he always lost one of his mittens. He wore those stupid tights during training that Xavi had to force David to wear, and he looked ridiculous. They _all_ looked ridiculous, but especially Silva with his floppy hair, puppy dog eyes, and quiet, eager laugh. 

 

Villa ignored him as much as he could, but when Silva was running away from something Sergio said, laughing like a madman, he dropped one of his gloves. He immediately brought his hand to his lips, let out a quiet gasp, and his teeth were chattering like losing the one glove was letting all the cold in the world in. 

 

Villa didn’t think, really. If he had been thinking, he would have left the glove, left the country, left the team, maybe somehow found a way to gently float off the planet and stop thinking about Silva. He jogged over instead, picked up the glove, and handed it to his teammate. 

 

“Stay warm, okay?” 

 

“Yeah,” Silva answered quietly, and his dark eyes were full of surprise, and something else. Something like wonder, and it was that same delicate look that inspired the strength it took Villa to leave for Barcelona. He couldn’t do anything but destroy that kind of vulnerable look. 

 

“Promise though.” And he wasn’t sure why he was drawing out the conversation, especially over something so small. It seemed stupid, and he felt lonely, and damaged, and so lost that for once he was that object he believed could never be found. 

 

“What’s that you said about promises again?” Silva smiled, but there was a bitter edge, and when he walked away, he didn’t look back. 

 

+ 

 

(2010) 

 

“You’ll stay won’t you?” Silva’s voice was quiet and tired, and when he snuggled into Villa’s arm, there wasn’t a thing in the world he could do to stop from falling in love. 

 

“I--” David Villa didn’t fall in love with people, and he didn’t lie. One of those was no longer true. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “You know I love it here. You know I love--” He looked away when Silva stared back hopefully. “But it’s Barcelona. And we’re Valencia.” 

 

“And they’re Manchester City, and what does it matter?” He was small and bunched up, and he looked at Villa like every word was a betrayal. 

 

“It matters because we need the money, Silva,” he said with a quiet, bitter laugh, tugging his friend closer. “They need it, and they can get a shitload for us because of everything we’ve done together.” 

 

“We can’t just destroy everything we’ve done together,” Silva breathed, and there was an edge of panic, like he had finally, honestly considered that they would be separated. 

 

“Well if we stay, we bring everyone down. And you know we don’t really have much of a choice anyway.” Villa looked down at his hands until he couldn’t force himself to stay still any longer. He carefully stretched his hand out to hold Silva’s, gently and softly and so carefully he might as well have been holding the air above it. 

 

“I don’t care about bringing other people down,” Silva whined, a low sound at the back of his throat. “I don’t care because I...don’t want to be away from you.” 

 

“Well you have to be. You’re going to _have_ to be. And you’re going to have to promise to be okay with that.” His grip tightened around Silva’s hand. 

 

“Promise you’ll stay,” Silva argued instead. 

 

There was a long pause and then, “I don’t make promises I know I’m going to break.” 

 

It was the last time they spoke before Villa signed for Barcelona. 

 

+ 

 

Villa stopped by his room later that night because he found his extra pair of gloves, and he knew Silva always lost his, and maybe he was worried. He wasn’t ready to admit he was worried, but he was worried. And he wanted an excuse, and for things to go back to how they used to be, and for Silva to never have to turn his back like that again. 

 

“Gloves,” he announced when Silva opened the door with a confused look. “I’ve got gloves for you. You know, since you always lose yours. Thought I could, you know, just give you a back-up just in case.” 

 

Silva took the gloves and inspected them closely. “Alright,” he said after a minute. “Thanks, I guess.” 

 

“You’re welcome.” The door shut in his face. “I guess.” 

 

+ 

 

“Well what did you do?” 

 

“That’s the thing, Xabi, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t lie to him, I didn’t cheat on him, and-- okay, we never even defined what we were back in Valencia. I left, he left, and we just sort of disappeared. And while we were there together, I don’t know, he never made me put a label on anything, so I never did.” 

 

Villa was pacing the room, and Xabi was sitting back, listening, but glancing back at his phone every so often to check on his wife and kids. Villa envied Xabi. He wanted that. He wanted-- okay, fuck, he wanted Silva, but he also wanted simplicity, to be together again, and to possess that extraordinary hope that so often diminished impossibility. 

 

“So he’s pissed you wouldn’t stay for him.” Xabi checked his phone, muttered, “Obviously.” 

 

“I couldn’t,” Villa breathed, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, I couldn’t stay.” 

 

“Just because it was impossible doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt him.” Xabi was sighing out the information like he didn’t have the time of day, but Villa felt like grabbing his shoulders and begging him to never stop giving him advice because he was fucked on his own. “Maybe a lie would have been easier.” 

 

“Maybe fucking flying to the moon would have been _easier_ , Xabi. It’s not about what’s easy--” 

 

Xabi snapped his head back, setting his phone aside impatiently, cutting Villa off quickly. “It’s not about _happiness_ either, is it? It’s about the game. You made your choice. Now give him the chance--and the space-- to make his.” 

 

It was the day Villa learned he needed to let go. 


End file.
